


Writing the Code

by shapechanger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7250032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shapechanger/pseuds/shapechanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study in touch and signal. Remus shouldn't, can't, won't, but it doesn't stop them from veering far too close to the edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing the Code

There are some moments so private that they should never be witnessed by outside eyes. This is what Remus thinks of in those fleeting instants where Tonks' eyes meet his and set hopes he had thought long dead ablaze. How he feels when their hips accidentally brush in the confined spaces between kitchen cabinets. The world looks on and does not see the silent intensity that has bloomed between them. These private seconds of communion should not be seen, because there is no one else in the world who can feel it as he does when he watches her, is touched by her. He doesn't want anyone else knowing precisely how he feels, only for it to be used against him, or her.

Remus can't pinpoint a single moment when everything changes irretrievably. Rather, it's a series of them, of being allowed to be close when he expects to be pushed away, of her opening up where others would shut him out. She keeps surprising him and he doesn't always know how to cope with it.

All that he knows is that one evening, he is entranced when she tosses her head back in laughter, the slender arch of her graceful neck captivating him when he should be concentrating on eating dinner with the others at Grimmauld. He tries not to let his face burn with the thought of brushing his lips against the side of her throat, pushes away the sudden spiral of loneliness, the brief fracture of desire, as well as he can. She's not an object, to react this way towards her is wrong, and there are no exceptions to that rule. She is his _friend_ as few others have been and he will _not_ allow himself to think of her like this, not even fleetingly. It does no good. Pleading the excuse of not feeling well, he makes his retreat swiftly. No one questions it because it is close to the moon and the effects on him vary. Far from settling his mind, however, he manages to give himself a headache from over-thinking everything that makes the excuse come true.

Later, Tonks knocks his door softly to see how he is feeling, the only one to bother, finds him trying to ignore the way that his head has continued twinging. The others all give him a certain amount of distance around the moon, whether from misguided compassion or discomfort, or at his direct request, but not her. She has always been the exception, not the rule.

She comes and settles on the end of his bed, hair a shade of dark pink, folding an extra blanket over him; producing a headache cure from her pocket when she sees his pinched expression and interprets it correctly. They read books in a companionable silence that needs no words to fill it, her legs draped over his as though it is the most natural thing in the world, back leant against the wall. Strangely, it comforts him, but his book slowly but surely fails to preoccupy him. Instead, he finds himself studying her features. It disturbs him to find deepening shadows beneath her eyes, to see a bruise healing on her chin and the slight remainder of a split still ghostly upon her lower lip, the costs of war and espionage. Her closeness disrupts him in all the ways that are both right and wrong in his mind. The fact that she does not mind being so close is more of a gift for him than he has ever said aloud to her.

She touches him at other times too, casually brushing her fingertips to his arm, sitting near enough that their knees occasionally knock together. Touch, his hidden weakness, the simplicity of physical contact with her, actively initiated _by_ her without any worry whatsoever concerning his condition. There is no instinctive fear of him at all; she's another shapeshifter, capable of wearing any face she chooses and mistrusted for it, though to a lesser degree than he is.

They insinuate themselves into one another's personal space almost without noticing. The fluency of this shared language of touch and signal is wholly invisible to anyone but the particularly observant. It is theirs alone and they both like it that way. Eventually he starts initiating it too, when she continues to reciprocate, gaining the smallest amount of confidence in the fact that she will not flinch away if he does. He hovers a hand lightly at her waist as they edge around others in a crowded room. His palm folds with hers to help her to her feet when she trips, her klutziness endearing rather than off-putting. It isn't until he begins to entertain further thoughts of touches too intimate that he catches himself and pulls back, at least for a while.

She asks once or twice if there is something wrong, but the words die in his throat before he can even begin to explain. How could he tell her without making it _seem_ wrong? So he repeats to himself uselessly the litany that is meant to keep him from crossing the line. _Too old, too poor and too dangerous._ It becomes a mantra and he lets it resonate through him, bears it like an old scar. And it still isn’t enough, because he eventually relents and returns to the old pattern of touches when he finds that he misses them. Without the gentle magic of those casual touches, his world lacks something. He clings desperately to the private glances that no one else really understands, because despite his best efforts, they mean everything, have meant everything for far longer than he will ever be willing to confess.

There's a sofa at Grimmauld Place, when it almost happens, and a roaring fire. It's some sort of celebration and there are fireworks going off outside, the Muggles in the vicinity making the most of the opportunity to fill the sky with coloured light. She is leaning against him, just a little, barely enough to be more than a faint pressure sat next to him, but he still notices. He is weary and yet a measure of contentment has settled within him at her presence. He stretches tiredly, nudging his cheek into the cushions of the sofa before half-curling on his side. It draws him away from her, but that's all right, they're still sharing the same space and that's enough, more than he ever expected to have. No one has been this comfortable with him since he first met Sirius and James, and it's often difficult to keep himself from indulging in it. 

A particularly loud bang, reminiscent of a much bigger explosion, startles them both. He uncurls in surprise at the same moment that she jumps and her fingers twitch towards her wand, but the sofa isn't big enough for both of them to move as much as they do, there's no room and the result is a tangle. His feet hit her just under the ribs and she upsets her balance, half-landing on him. He is pinned against the cushions by her body and momentarily wide-eyed, the shock and warmth rushing through him with an immediacy that he is unprepared for. His gaze registers her position long after the rest of his senses, the imprint of her seared against him. He knows it's an accident, knows it's meaningless, but he forgets all pretence of indifference as they both try to navigate the situation without shoving the other onto the floor. It's awkward and there's a more than trace amount of embarrassment on both sides, yet neither of them seem capable of fixing it.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm squashing you…" She tries to move with little success, comes very close to pitching herself straight off the sofa and narrowly misses knocking her elbow directly into his ribs. When he speaks, his voice remarkably soft as he lets her hear the truth. "I don't mind. Sorry if I kicked you, are you all right?"

"You will shortly, I'm not light. I'm fine, it’s all right." Her tone, however, _is_ light, and he shakes his head at her, at himself too, with a smile.

"Do you want me to move?" There's a prompt in her words, one that he doesn't quite know how to read. Now he is uncertain, thinking that she doesn't want to stay, of course she doesn't, it wasn't on purpose. The look of it flashes through his eyes before he can stop it. "Do you want to?" 

He chides himself for the not insignificant amount of elation at her next reply, feels her still against him.

"Well, you're warm and this is...actually quite nice, but if you want me off…"

Her reluctance is obvious and it pleases him even though it _shouldn't_ , so for once, he asks of her what he doesn't ask of anyone; even knowing that it's selfish, all of the reasons that he can’t, won’t give in to this, disregarded, just for an instant.

"Stay?"

"Okay, no moving." She rests her cheek half to his chest, half to his shoulder, lets herself relax. For a moment he forgets how to breathe because she has stolen it from him. The scent that has slowly come to remind him of her, something that holds a hint of crisp autumn apple and the barest trace of lavender drifts into his senses, and he fights the urge to close his eyes as her body curves ever downwards towards his. He's controlled enough to not react inappropriately, trusts himself that far, he's not a teenage boy. As it turns out, though, he isn't wholly immune to her and the confusion of where to let his hands rest makes him hesitant. Arms around her will make her unable to leave easily if she wishes it, not a dilemma he wants to create. Folding his fingers together at the base of her spine is too intimate for a thousand reasons, the same for curling them at her hips. This is dangerous and it's riding the edge of not being another symptom of an increasingly close friendship, but something else entirely.

Eventually, he simply touches her cheek, barely brushing her skin with his knuckles. Rather than solving the internal war, however, it only deepens it when he looks at her and sees a question in her eyes that terrifies him. It also has the effect of making him want to pull her closer still. He fights both instincts like a drowning man. They are inches away suddenly, the sofa confining them to realise the dips and shifts, the sheer intricacy of how their bodies feel pressed together, bound by the ties of human emotion. If she shifts just so, it'll be hips aligned to hips and he can't vouch for what he'll do if she does. The moment hangs between them and he has never _wanted_ like this, never let himself go this far with someone. Her lips part, just a little, and this, this is too much. "Tonks." The way that he says her name isn't quite a whisper, but his voice is hoarse and her reaction _doesn't help._

"Yes." Her response should be a question, asking what he is doing, what the _hell_ he thinks he's doing and why. Instead, it's an answer and the honesty in her eyes undoes him totally. _She can't possibly mean..._

 _I can't._ There's a certain desperation to the thought, and it's obvious that he's barely clinging to his resolve. Even as he thinks it, his other hand comes up to frame her face, his fingertips trace her jawline reverently and he feels her shiver, feels it all the way through him, watches her eyes close at his touch, her face tilt into it. Suddenly there's a fragment of time that invites clarity, everything makes sense and he's reeling with her nearness even as he tries to arrest every motion that he wants to make. He curls his fingers back, clenches his hand into a fist and tries to think of an escape route that means he won't ruin everything. In his mind he's already running and he knows it, knows all of the reasons why and feels the first shadow of hurt that is to follow. There's never been anything said between them. He has to keep it that way.

He expects it when her eyes snap open and she draws back, expects that she's come to her senses, but his reaction changes from one of wearied resignation to sharp, focused concern when she promptly reaches in her pocket and extracts her Auror badge seconds later. They're spelled to alert their bearers immediately when they're being called in, and the metal is glowing a vivid red as though it’s been sunk into a furnace, indicating a top-level emergency. That means only one thing, has meant only one thing for months now, even if the explanations given by specific echelons of the Ministry indicate otherwise. _Death Eaters._

Tonks scrambles gracelessly away, hits the floor and is up and moving before he has more than a moment to register what’s going on. Each Auror squad has a specified assembly point prior to handling an emergency call, and he knows exactly where she's headed, knows better than to get in her way as she's reaching for her protective robe hung in the hallway, dragging the weapon sling in a diagonal across her body. He follows her out, calls after her as she heads towards the door. "Do you need me to-?" She looks back and nods quickly. "Keep an eye out, please." Her request is crisp, professional, putting aside the personal weight of the destroyed moment, and it's entirely at odds with the sudden awareness that he's afraid of what could happen to her. Keeping an eye out means more than simply watching for her return. It means being ready to call the rest of the Order, to intervene silently if necessary, if things go badly. "Be careful."

"I will be."

And then she’s gone, and he's left to wait, and wonder what might have happened if he'd given in.

What begins as concern quickly becomes frantic worry after three hours and no word at all but for a brief, terse communication from Kingsley to remain at Grimmauld until further notice. He sends a Patronus to Molly and Arthur at the Burrow, another to Hestia Jones in case a healer is needed, asking her to be on standby. He paces the carpet in circles, movements that are closer to the wolf than they are to the man, anxious and burning with the need to do something, trying to ignore the panic and the regret that are threatening to shatter his calm. He needs to keep a clear head.

It's been almost five hours, one further message from Kingsley that under no circumstances was he or anyone else to come when he hears someone stumble. He draws his wand and paces forward to meet the person at the door. His heart leaps to his throat when he recognises the figure in the torn and filthy robe and he immediately completely forgets all protocol.

"Wotcher Remus." Her voice is weak, and followed almost immediately by a fit of coughing. She leans heavily against the wall. Her face holds the faint, smudged remnants of smoke and suddenly, the state of her robes makes sense, the scent clinging to her. _Fire._ Then he sees something dried and red too, flowering outwards into her hair, and his mind flashes forward. _Blood._

He moves all at once in a rush towards her, leans down and ducks under her arm, lets her rest on him as they move and gets her settled on the sofa, helps to clear her breathing. She's no damsel in distress and she's never needed a white knight, and the proof of that is in the lines of her body; in the damage it has avoided and the damage that it has sustained. What she does need is help seeing to the aftermath, at least this time. The blood isn't quite at her temple, ruling out the added worry of a concussion, but it's plastered to the side of her face in a thick layer against her cheek. The wound itself is a long, thin cut, but appears to be superficial, looks far worse than it actually is. He deals with it quickly before she loses any more blood, seals it closed but then turns his attention to the potential of more serious injuries. She winces when she moves and he sees that part of her robe has adhered to her arm, material stuck against the skin underneath. She gasps out a strangled swear word when he touches fingertips to it carefully, confirming his suspicions. "How bad is it?" He isn’t asking about the raid, he knows that it was bad, knows it from the state of her. He's asking about the burns that she's sustained. He watches her swallow convulsively. "Bad enough," she confirms. "I need to soak it off so something can be done with it, but I'm going to need help. I don’t think I can do it on my own."

“Do you want me to call Hestia?”

"No." When she refuses, he understands what she wants of him, sees how tired and battle-worn, how proud and how stubborn she is. He sees her and it hits hard, because she's trusting him with the care of her body despite what he is. It takes him a moment to realise that it's perhaps because of it as well, one shapeshifter to another.

It isn't an easy process. He knows enough about healing to know that she should have gone to St Mungo's, but understands why she didn't. It isn't the first time that one of them has helped the other in such a situation, but he thinks that this time might be a contender for the worst incident to date. He doesn't let himself look at her face as he fetches water and begins to sluice it over her sleeve. The material is warped and bunched, clearly the result of sustained exposure to incredible heat. There's no way to give her any pain relief, the only type that they have available is a salve that has to be applied against the injured area to be fully effective, and the material bars his way. She doesn't make a sound while he works on it; he can feel her shaking with the effort that it takes to remain silent and largely still. 

After several painful minutes it finally comes loose, and he hears her breathing go harsh for a moment as the air hits the burns underneath. Remus sucks in a breath as well when he uses a Severing charm to cut away the sleeve at the elbow and sees the extent of the damage to her arm; the odds of it scarring are high, and briefly he's worried that this is beyond him, but he steels himself. He can heal it, he knows how, and he cannot fail her. He narrows his eyes and focuses on cleaning it with a careful charm, then begins to dab salve against the raw flesh as gently as he can manage. To distract her while he works, he asks a question.

"What happened?"

"Muggle-baiting. At least to start with." Her voice is grim, and he can hear the anger in it, thin and dangerous. "Then fires all over the countryside. We've spent all night fighting those as much as the people responsible, putting them out. We weren't quick enough with some, there were people trapped in their homes." She doesn't explain further, doesn’t need to, his mind neatly fills in what she isn't saying. "And you went in after them."

"I did, along with a couple of others." Her voice is like a blade, a ring of steel that parts the heavy silence of Grimmauld Place. "Proudfoot and Savage came in with me on the last one. I kept the fires at bay and stopped the building from collapsing while they rescued the civilians." There's exhaustion in the words. "We all made it out, but they don't know if one of the people we found in there is going to pull through. The healers have done everything they can for him. It wasn't ordinary fire, I'd have said Fiendfyre but it didn’t have the same characteristics. It just kept-" She breaks off as he points his wand at the wounded area ( _it's her entire forearm, it could have been so much **worse**_ , he thinks) and silently wills it to knit the flesh back together. " _Fuck._ "

"Sorry," he apologises automatically. "Almost done." But even as he concentrates on the burns, his eyes catch hers and he's suddenly wholly conscious of how close he came to losing her for good tonight. He isn't going to bring up that lingering moment of almost but not quite, because this is the proof that neither of them can afford to be closer than they already are. The risk is too high, because this is war and the odds of both of them coming out alive are stacked against them. _Outlive me_ , he thinks. _If only one of us can survive, outlive me, Tonks._ He lets himself touch the inside of her wrist where he's just healed the skin, and he knows that he can't let himself do so again, that this has to be the last time. Because everything that he doesn't say out loud has seeped into every bit of contact between them, into this second language of touch that has already been written, a code between her body and his. If she doesn't already understand, then she will eventually, and he _can't._

It isn't the last time. Not even close. It isn't the last time that he thinks the words _too old, too poor and too dangerous_ and tries to use them as a shield, or indeed the last time he offers them up as reasoning. It isn't the last time that she meets him with honesty and offers him more than he deserves.

It isn't the last time that he touches her.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if it's because I originally wrote this pairing before the canon existed, but this particular story appears to have veered slightly off-course as far as being canon-adherent. I wrote some small sections of this a few years ago, and then never posted it anywhere, but I recently had the urge to revisit those snippets and this is the (much longer) result. 
> 
> I love writing the pre-relationship tension between these two because I think it's such an interesting dynamic to play with, but I promise that there will be a piece with actual resolution soon!


End file.
